


the hunger I felt

by MaySparrow



Series: if you love me, love all of me [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, God and Crowley have a mother and child convo, Good Omens Kink Meme, discussions about emotional abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:02:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24484774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaySparrow/pseuds/MaySparrow
Summary: Crowley dreams of Eden, and other things besides.Written for the Good Omens Kink Meme.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & God (Good Omens)
Series: if you love me, love all of me [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1534586
Comments: 11
Kudos: 58
Collections: Good Omens Kink Meme





	the hunger I felt

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Good Omens Kink meme. Find the prompt [here](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/3161.html?thread=1468761).
> 
> This has been in the works since October I think, and a LOT has happened in that time. A lot of this is originally shaped off of my own father, who was emotionally abusive growing up until I cut him out of my life, actually owning up to his actions in a sincere apology. There's also influences from [_Demonology and the Tri-Phasic Model of Trauma: An Integrative Approach_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20177950/chapters/47807593), but mainly from [_the only one i want_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21208418) by artenon.

Crowley, for all that he is retired, is still very much a demon with his own interests. He is, like many, a creature of habit, prone to falling to his old ways unless he makes an attempt to cease doing so. And, as a demon, he considers such attempts to be a waste of his time when it's in his nature to tempt people into their unhealthy ways. _Practice what you preach,_ Crowley would joke, probably whilst dropping a ten quid note into a shallow sewer grate and deepening the grate so the bill is always just barely out of reach.

So, like the creature of habit that he is, he still happily partakes in a good amount of Sloth for Sloth's sake. It's always been one of his favorite vices, up there with imbibing in too much wine and driving to terrorize. Crowley has been practicing the art of sleeping for millennia, and he's not about to stop now.

So he sleeps consistently, though the number of places that become his resting places increases marginally. Where Crowley would once sleep on the large bed in his dark flat, he now finds himself sleeping in the small, incredibly soft and ancient-looking bed in the quaint little flat above Aziraphale's shop. (“Quaint” is a word Aziraphale would use. Crowley would prefer to use the term “antiquated”. But it's not his flat, and it is a _very_ comfortable bed.) He even finds himself, from time to time, napping on the couch that sits behind a bookshelf, just besides the register in Aziraphale's shop.

He's not by any means complaining about these changes. They are, after all, still allowing him his creature comforts, and he likes very much the knowledge that he can slip into unconsciousness with the certainty that Aziraphale will be within reach upon waking.

This is a comfort, especially in the weeks just following Armageddon when the change occurs. Understand; Crowley, for his six thousand years on Earth, has seen a thing or two that would make a mortal's stomach empty its contents. Obviously, when one dreams, the subconscious can at times throw unpleasant details from old recollections out for the sleeper to try to process. Crowley also knows a thing or two about fear, as one does, and so in the events following the summer of 2019 he struggles to sleep without nightmares.

But that was then, and like all sleepers, Crowley can also have dreamless sleeps, as well as dream sporadically in the manner most do. More often than not, Crowley has the type of dreams that make no sense, where bits and pieces seem thrown in and random—fantastical images and ideas he'd never consider when awake, and yet seem familiar to him.

Dreams are odd like that

All that said and done, Crowley is not quite sure what to make of this one.

Let us start with the basics: Crowley knows he is asleep. This in itself is an oddity, simply for the fact that Crowley only rarely lucid dreams. He's rarely fully aware that his surroundings are not real and are prone to change and can be changed by his own whim. So he's already going into this one with curiosity at the new.

He opens his eyes, finding foliage over his head. The sun speckles through the leaves and leaves spots of light and dark along the grass he lies in. The demon sits up, examining his surroundings, and knows immediately that he is in a garden. Rather, he is in _the_ garden. He is not sure how he knows immediately—perhaps it is just one of those dream things, where you accept the images in your head as fact without issue. It could be that, but Crowley doesn't think so.

He looks at his hands, because he does have _hands_ , and a dark robe, and long hair and deep gray wings. This is interesting, being in human form in the garden, where he had only ever adopted his serpent shape. Yet, here Crowley is, looking at how the light through the trees paints his skin and the drape of his robe.

“Huh.”

The odd thing is, Crowley has dreamed of Eden in the past, but he knows, in that way he just _does_ for some indiscernible way, that this is not like those dreams. It's familiar, true, like all memories are, yet.

What is it that's different? Crowley wonders, and then he knows, just like so. The details, he sees, are meticulous in a way a memory would not be. Memories have a sort of fuzz at their edges, ignoring the details that don't matter to focus on the important. This, however, is grounded in a kind of reality, from the way the wind gently blows strands of hair into his face to how the sun feels warm on his knees.

There is no wild, bizarre out of place imagery here. James Bond does not appear to offer Crowley a glass of Scotch as he gets to his feet. There are no flaming Bentleys to pass as he walks, no cheery Aziraphales playing silly little lyres.

That said—there _is_ music.

It's faint and slow, and it reminds him of old Ireland. He was there, for a while, after the Celts had settled into the rolling hills. He'd heard them sing of faeries and the sea, and there had been an ethereal nature to the songs that was nothing like the choirs of Heaven, but was otherworldly all the same. The notes he catches, soft in the air, carry that same nature.

Carefully, Crowley weaves through the garden, turning this way and that, to find the source. He peeks past each tree and leaf with more wariness than perhaps is warranted—but of course, he is lucid, and this dream is odd. He finds, with a touch of frustration, that he really shouldn't be surprised to discover that the music's source is in the center of the paradise, somewhere just behind the tree. _The_ tree, the big, important one. Of course he recognizes it, how can the Serpent of Eden not recognize the clearing Eve had once walked through?

Crowley knows how to be cautious, but he's also curious to a fault, and so he edges right up to the tree and keeps close to it, a hand on its rough bark while he circles the width of it. On the other side is another clearing, not unlike the one Eve took her own apple from, and yet not the same. He's not sure what to make of it, though he turns and finds the tree is so wide that he can't see the original clearing from behind it. It's as though this space is its own hiding spot, where one could creep and peek out from, and watch the whole event take place once more, unseen.

And yet, there is no one here. No instruments, no musicians, no radios or gramophones, but the music plays on anyway, somehow at Crowley's back again (“ _how deeply are you sleeping, or are you still awake? A good friend told me you've been staying up so late_ ”). He turns his face to the sky, and there are no answers there, either.

From this clearing, he can see the top of the wall, but Crowley sees no figure atop it when he looks eastward. Pity, that.

With a grimace, Crowley turns in the clearing, his eyes narrow as he examines its edges for a clue as to what he's meant to do here. If he listens hard enough, he can hear the notes of a harp—he tsks at this, trying to discern its direction once more, as well as the low bass resonating under the melody. But where is it _coming_ from? It almost seems like it's behind him again, but that can't be right.

Unless--

Crowley turns to stare at the trunk of the tree once more, at precisely the same moment that a rustle sounds from overhead in its branches. Without further warning, a little face pops out from branches just above him, bright almond-shaped eyes peering out at him, upside down.

Crowley leaps back, hand over his heart, with a rather undignified yelp.

“Sorry!” the round faced human says, blinking owlishly. “I meant to greet you! I was at the top, where all the best fruit is.”

Struggling to collect himself, taking deep breaths he certainly does not need, all the demon can muster is a baffled stare. “Er. Right,” he says eloquently.

“Could you give me a hand?” There's a bit of a rustle, the face disappearing in place of two small dangling feet. “S'a bit high.”

To his astonishment, Crowley does as bid without hesitation. He reaches upward into the branches as the little being drops slowly from it—his large hands find their slim waist, bunching the fabric there, and the human-shaped being releases the branch they've been gripping one-handed, the other arm gently squeezing three small, bright apples to their chest.

They hardly weigh a thing, he finds, setting them onto their feet with care. They seem for all intents and purposes like a child, right down to the way they plop onto the ground, cross-legged, and pat the ground beside them, offering him a wide grin. Once more, Crowley obeys without thought, only belatedly wondering why he's done so.

He supposes he should be suspicious about this, but he can't for the life of him fathom why. Instead, Crowley watches with open curiosity. The human pays him little heed, choosing to set their small bounty on the ground in an orderly row for examination. They turn the fruits this way and that, as though trying to find the best angle to judge their quality.

Crowley crosses his legs in the dirt as they do, examining in turn his host. A tiny thing, yes—perhaps not even five feet in height. A wild mass of curls, far more tangled than his own, adds to the illusion of youth and bounces around a full, round face, lightly freckled from what he can only assume is time spent in the sun.

Their hands, small as the rest of them, clap together quietly, and then the human-shaped being meets his eye. Olive skin and dark Semitic curls, hooded eyes and long dark lashes. Crowley is distinctly reminded of Mary at sixteen, when she was first told of her pregnancy. Sixteen years old, bright and curious, and already on her way to motherhood.

Ah.

“Oh dear,” his Mother says, and he feels the warm pads of two fingers under his chin, nudging it upward. “Close your mouth, hon.”

(Her eyes are deep, rich gold. The same hue his once were, before they had tipped into something far more unsettling.)

Crowley closes his mouth at Her gentle persuasion. He opens it again, reconsiders, and closes it once more with a mild frown.

“Hi,” he finally settles on. Stunning. Astoundingly articulate.

Beside him, the Almighty wiggles happily in Her seat—the motion gives him whiplash, reminded suddenly of Aziraphale's own little pleased fidgeting—Her hands pressing together. “Hi!” She says, just as formally, Her smile bright enough to blind. And it's so disconcerting, for how _excited_ She is.

She's not giving him much to work with, he thinks, inanely half-tempted to return Her grin with his own awkward one. “Er,” he starts, “to what do I owe...” Crowley struggles, looking away and thinking on his words, before he settling on weakly gesturing all around them at the setting. “This... visit?”

The Almighty's smile slips—terror strikes him momentarily at the loss. Lovely, he's upset Her already, can't do anything right. She looks over Her folded hands, hooded eyes focused on his face. It feels, distinctly, as though She is looking through him, seeing into him and his flaws.

Her eyes drop, hands falling into the folds of the gown over Her lap. He watches them, happy to look away from that face, those eyes. Those small fingers fidget with the fabric, the color of which he can't quite make out. It shimmers like water, like refracted light, easy on the eyes.

“I'm making you uncomfortable,” Her voice draws his eyes back up. “Would you prefer it if I sat a bit further away?”

Er.

God is asking Crowley if She is making him uncomfortable. What the fuck is happening.

He holds up a finger, mind reeling, utterly wrong-footed. “Give me a moment.” He might have a headache? It's very hard to discern, because this is in his own mind, he _thinks_ , but the avatar he has distinctly seems to be baffled to the point of disorientation.

She waits quite patiently, and once he's gathered himself, Crowley lowers his finger slowly. “I am really very confused,” he begins. “And rather concerned.”

The Almighty tilts Her head, the curls shifting, and nods a bit. “That's fair.”

“And we've been, er. Estranged, I suppose, for over six thousand years,” he continues, noting with growing surprise Her little wince.

She gives a small hiss of an inhale, and lets out a rather embarrassed affirmation. “Yeeeeah.”

He throws his arms out, overcome. “And you are taking this _very_ casually!” comes the outcry, unexpected but entirely warranted, Crowley thinks.

 _Six thousand years_ , and that's not including the spare change of time between the Fall and the Garden. And yet, here She is, comfortably sitting beside him, as though he's not a damned thing. As though he's not a wretched, wicked, awful thing, who's been abandoned. A thing that has been deemed unworthy of Her love.

How is She so carefree beside him? How is She not disgusted by his mere presence?

“Well!” She exclaims, equal parts defensive and sheepish, Her shoulders scrunched up to Her ears—and yet, She's smiling with childlike contentment, eyes crinkled with delight, Her defense nothing but a joke. “What would you have me do, Crowley?” And it's a genuine question. “Come down to you in a burning bush, in surround-sound audio? Use my Voice to Command you hear and obey me?”

Crowley swallows, at a loss for a reply. She continues, Her own tone dropping to something far more gentle and intimate.

“Honestly, just saying it out loud, the idea sounds so pretentious, doesn't it? That's not how I want you to think of me. That isn't how I want this conversation to go, not with you already on edge and angry with me, simply for the tone of my voice.”

And what's he meant to make out of that, really? It's true, something about this setting and presentation (Her, small, real and soft) is far more grounding than hearing a Celestial Voice would be. And maybe that's _why_ Crowley is so thrown by the whole scenario.

It's startlingly genuine. Here, the grass, the sunlight and Her uneven complexion, the details unique, intimate. It's nothing he knows, not from Her.

He's spent six thousand years using cool distance as a defense mechanism. With millennia of disingenuous humans and working to wile, Crowley knows the instinct to turn to his persona of slick demon, a casual creature unaffected by cruelty. It's a mask he's perfected, but here, looking into the face of a golden-eyed child, without his glasses to hide behind or his grasp on the situation to fall back on, he can't reach the facade.

And it scares him, and unnerves him, that he can't fall back on his protective measures, and _that_ makes him angry.

“Alright, then what _am_ I meant to be angry at you for? What am I _allowed?_ ” he retorts, sharp and spiteful (thank something, thank something he reached that bitterness to hide behind). After all, there _is_ quite a lot to be angry about, to feel _hurt_ about—six thousand years' worth of suffering and anger and loneliness. And isn't it fitting that She appears _now_ , when he's finally started to heal, and that She looks so undisturbed, so relaxed.

How dare She, he wants to say. How dare She show up now and throw him all over again. But he doesn't say it, doesn't reveal the hurt under the anger. Doesn't risk it.

He wonders if She sees it anyway.

In the gentle rustle of fabric, the Almighty folds Her legs to Her chest, so that She may fold Her arms around them and rest Her chin on Her knee. She watches him, unreadable. Her eyes are arresting—Crowley is meant to be the serpent with the intense gaze, but none do it better than She. He's held there, holding his breath, waiting for Her to dole out punishment for his outburst. For his _questions_.

“Go right ahead,” She says, calm, accepting. “You've more than earned the right to be angry with me, and to shout at me and demand answers from me.”

The breath shudders out of him. He feels very slightly dizzy. _Demand answers from me._

He hates how his voice wavers, just a little, when he swallows the panic in his throat and speaks again.

“Why now? Why do you allow this _now_?”

 _Why when I'm happy why when I'm supposed to be moving forward why not then, why not before, why not Before, why why why_.

Always the questions, and none of the bravery to ask them. Once burned, twice shy.

The thing that creeps across the Almighty's mouth might be a smile, but it feels too much like sorrow to seem correct. It almost reads like guilt. As though She could _ever--_

“Things,” she starts carefully, pulling Crowley out of his familiar anxiety, “Things are starting to change. Old, old wheels are finally being set in motion, and I want to give you some peace of mind in the face of all that's to come. You've always played _such_ an integral role in it all.” There is that smile again, tight and sad.

“Oh, _have_ I?” he grimaces around the words, sarcasm dripping like a poison. “Glad to know you think I've _earned_ the right to talk to you.”

It's like the demon can't stop his mouth—it shoots off when his mind is at war with itself, fighting between a desperate desire to not fuck this up and the sharp and angry wit he uses as a defense. It's--

It's a lot. It feels like a confrontation, and maybe not one he's ready to face. Does he get another chance? He's never before.

His Mother closes Her eyes, pressing Her cheek into Her knee. (How like a child trying to comfort itself, trying to hide from monsters.) “I don't know how to do this right by you, Crowley.”

His anger drains; he's a sieve and it filters out.

“I've played this out, you know? Every way this goes, this scenario, this moment, you're angry at me. And I wasn't sure what to do, to set this up so you wouldn't be, and then I came to the conclusion that you're _right_. You're right to be angry with me. I kept you in the dark. I _hurt_ you, and I didn't tell you why. I made you think it was your fault.”

Her voice is such a wavering thing. (How can such a shaky voice be the voice of the Creator?)

“And I know that no amount of answers will take away or undo all the things that have happened since then. I can't say that I'd take back what I did, or that I made a mistake. But I've put you through so _much_ , and for that I _am_ sorry. You have _every_ right to be hurt, upset, furious. I made you suffer for these long term plans and fates, and I never let you know why. I just let you hurt for my own reasons, with no promise you'll ever feel anything better, or know anything better.

There's no excuse. There's no one at fault for this but me. I'm sorry.”

There's a sharp inhale, a little gasp—it takes Crowley a few awful moments to realize it's from him. He's far too focused on the harsh aching in his chest, behind his too-many ribs. His long fingers press there, through the fabric, trying to soothe it, and he finds his chest heaving.

“S...say it again?”

“I'm sorry,” She says dutifully.

“Again,” he pleads, almost a whisper. “Please.”

Her face turns into the fabric, forehead against the bend of Her knee. Above them, thunder rumbles distantly. A heavy cloud passes in front of the sun, casting them into cool overcast lighting.

“I am so, so sorry, Crowley.” Her voice is a heavy weight between them, still frail at the edges. “I'm so sorry that this course I put you on has made you suffer so much. You were the only one who could do this thing I set out for you, the _only_ one, but I left you in so much pain, with no answers, for far longer than I would have ever wanted.”

She lifts Her head, wiping Her eyes with the back of Her hand. She sniffs once, harsh and loud. The cloud passes. The sun continues to shine.

“Can I make it up to you? Will you let me try?”

Not for the first time in his long, long life, Crowley is at a loss for words. It's hard to put a word on the thing he feels in this instant—overwhelmed, perhaps. He's registered the words, but their meaning isn't processing. It's too big to comprehend.

Subdued, he pulls his knees up to his chest, thoughts rolling around in his head like marbles might. He thinks perhaps his eyes are damp, but he's not crying, or shaking, and when he speaks, his voice, though soft, is surprisingly steady.

“I thought you hated me.”

The Almighty sniffs again, though this time, there's a scoff in the mix. “I could never hate you.”

He pushes onward, struck with a need to get the words, the _experience_ , out of his chest. “I thought I made you angry. I thought I pushed you too much.”

God looks off into the middle distance. A ghost of a smile pulls at the corner of Her mouth, then slips. “Not you. Never you. You pushed me in all the ways I always wanted you to.”

He thinks on this quietly, looking up to the edge of wall, distant between the foliage. When he speaks again, he chooses his words with care.

“You said I was the only one who could do it. What did you mean? What did I need to do?”

His Mother inhales deeply to collect Herself, and then sits upright, staring at Her apples again. “Right,” She begins, brows pinching together in contemplation. “Before I tell you, I need you to know that I never stopped loving you. I still love you, Crowley, you and all the other Fallen, no matter what any of them think. No matter how hard they've made it.”

She picks up an apple. Crowley watches Her hold it up to eye level and turn it in the light.

 _See this side_ , he thinks, _pure as snow. See that side, red as blood_.

“You're a little different from the rest of them. You always have been, admittedly. At the very beginning, the Fallen fought and questioned me because more than _anything,_ they wanted to know what their purpose was. But like a self-fulfilling prophecy, they found their purpose _in_ the Fall. They were always meant to, Crowley, and I'll explain why soon, but for now? You. My special case.

“You came to me with a question,” She continued. “You asked me, after the dust began to settle, if this was always meant to happen in the way it did. And I told you the truth, that yes, this was the Plan, and you, you sweet curious creature, you asked me _why_.”

The Almighty sets the fruit down, smiling in remembrance. She patters Her fingers in the dirt, thinking on it.

“You know I love that question? It's the first one children really learn to ask. _Why_. It goes on forever, really. _Why_ do fish live in water, _why_ can't they live on land, _why_ are their bodies made the way they are. Why, why, why. It's my _favorite_.”

The Almighty turns in the dirt, body angled to face his, and meets his gaze. “I told you it was part of the experiment of free will. You didn't understand just yet, and I can't blame you—humans weren't quite ready to exist, and they were the ones meant to be tested, right?”

“Tested to destruction,” Crowley mumbles a bit irritably. She offers a weak smile in apology.

“Not that, never that. The thing about free will is that, if it's supposed to work, there are supposed to be different options. Humans wouldn't have to choose between being kind and being cruel, if cruelty wasn't a concept.”

“I know, I know,” he dismisses with a long stretch. “Not meaning to insult it, really. It's probably your finest work.”

“Oh thank you,” She says with a delighted grin. “It's my second favorite, really.” Then, She sobers a bit. “I didn't really know how to explain it to you then—that humans weren't the only ones to be tested. That the others had to Fall because of what Heaven and Hell would have to face to make things right, in the end.”

Crowley grimaces a little, lost. “Sorry, I've lost the plot a bit. Who else is being tested? And what about me?”

“Right. Sorry. I'll get back to that in a bit, but I've been dancing around your question, haven't I?” Another apologetic smile, all lips and cheek. “Oh, Crowley, you didn't Fall for doing anything wrong. Never that, please, please know that. I'm so sorry for the secrecy. _You_ Fell because I needed _you_ to be my secret in the Rebellion.”

Wait.

“ _What_?”

“Think about it,” the words come out of Her in a rush, “Just think about it. All the Fallen to choose from and _you_ were the one sent to Eden. All the others, who would have hurt the humans, who would have tried to force them, and it was _you_ instead. You, who only ever told them that they could make a choice.”

Crowley takes in the excitement She radiates, eyes lit up and grin too wide, and lays back in the dirt, unblinking. She continues, eager.

“You never intervened to the point of controlling them. You, clever you, let them make their own choices, let them decide what to do with the inconveniences you caused them. Some of them get off the M25 in a rage and take it out on the world around them—but some of them _don't_. And no matter what, all you've done is set up a situation where they have the choice to be kind, or be cruel. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

A pause. He thinks She's waiting for a reaction.

“Oh,” he finally decides on. It's decidedly hollow. She pushes forward regardless.

“Yes, _oh_. And it goes on! Oh, Crowley, it was never coincidence that you ended up on Earth, and it wasn't coincidence that you were the one meant to deliver the Antichrist. Just _think_ about it! The one demon who didn't want the Apocalypse, and you were handed the key to it. You were given the choice on what to do about it. Didn't it seem so beautifully ironic?”

“It did,” Crowley admits, rather numbly. He stares at the branches above him. It hurts less than seeing Her smile. “I just didn't know you were having a laugh at my expense.”

“Oh,” comes the soft exclamation, all the mischievous delight slipping out of it. “Oh, no, it wasn't that. I was... I was just so delighted that you played the role you needed to play, so perfectly, without ever being told head-on it was what I needed.”

For a few long minutes, Crowley says nothing, inhaling and exhaling slowly. It calms him, he thinks, and when he finally speaks, it's with resignation.

“I was your sleeper agent.”

His Mother smiles apologetically, a far more subdued thing. “You were my sleeper agent.”

Silence falls again, save for the rustling of leaves in the wind. If he listens, Crowley can hear the faintest of birdsongs.

Revelations aside, he finds he doesn't feel that much better. He closes his eyes.

“So all of that,” he says, slowly, carefully, “was so I could be a pawn in your game?”

Besides him comes the rustle of movement, fabric dragging in dirt; he doesn't open his eyes to watch, not yet ready to match Her gaze. He doesn't know what he'll find, and he doesn't know how he'll react.

“No, _no_ , not at all. You have free will too, don't you know that? You _do_ , you have choice, and I had hoped beyond reason that you'd be yourself, be curious, be gentle, despite it all. And you _were_ , all on your own. You have no idea how happy I am.” Her words are choked with an emotion he can't possibly fathom. “You chose so well, over and over. You chose humanity, over everything else, over Heaven and Hell and fear and destiny. I'm so proud of you.”

Another small rustle. Crowley sighs, allowing the knowledge to settle in his skull, heavy.

(There is a pain that must be explained, to those who do not know it. It's the pain of spending years mourning, overthinking, wondering _what could I have done differently?_ Years spent terrified of doing whatever it was you had done wrong _again_ , terrified of anyone caring about you for the fear you'll make them throw you out. You have to know what it is you did wrong so that you don't do it again, you could apologize, you could make it right, if only you could figure out _what_ , _why_.

It's the pain of learning, years too late, that you'd never done anything wrong at all. That it was never your fault. That you suffered and ached and shook and hated yourself for no flaw of your own.

What do you do with that knowledge? What do you do with that bottomless well of hurt, carved out inside you? How do you fill it up again?)

“Well,” he says, into the quiet between them, “that's one question answered.”

“Only a million more to go, huh?”

He thinks She's trying for lighthearted, but for all that Her voice is full of false cheer, it's impossible to miss Her own regretful tone underneath it. It's as though, for the first time, She's looking at it from his small, incomplete perspective—seeing all the ways it hurts more than it helps.

These answers are meant to be a gift, but it doesn't lessen the weight of grief. He thinks, opening his eyes and turning to find Her curled beside him, watching him watch Her, that they are realizing this together.

(“ _Cursed are you above all livestock and above all beasts of the field, on your belly you shall go,_ ” She had said to him once, and now here She lays, in the dirt beside him where She's cursed him.

Don't look too hard into that.)

What to say? What to say to the person who knows everything, who isn't even really a person as much as She is a concept, that is supposed to be perfect in every way, but has still caused you so much damage without knowing how deep it would run? How do you even respond?

Finally, Crowley says, meeting God's gaze evenly, “It hurt, you know.”

A pause. “I know.”

“Million light year fall,” he pushes onward, voice firm. “Burning sulfur. And you cut your love out of me.”

God swallows, dropping Her gaze in remorse, or perhaps shame. “I know. I'm sorry. I felt it—you have no idea how I _felt_ you being torn away from me like a limb. And I--” Her voice wavers again, before She grits Her teeth and continues firmly.

“I can make excuses, I can tell you that it had to happen, that I had a good reason, but none of that will ever undo the _hurt_ I've put you through. None of it is good enough to ask your forgiveness. I don't ask or expect you to forgive me, I won't argue that I deserve it. That's not my call to make. Crowley,” She says, jarring him with his chosen name, “I am _sorry_ for doing that to you. I am sorry I left you without answers. I'm sorry my answers are so weak in the face of your pain. I'm sorry because I know after tonight I won't be able to give you more answers in the future. And I also know that being sorry does _not_ make it okay.

“You don't have to forgive me. Never, _never_ feel obligated to forgive me, baby, not if you aren't ready, not if you don't mean it. You don't owe me that. You don't owe me anything.”

His breath catches again.

There is a power in Her voice; it isn't the Voice She would use to Command, but it's just as strong, just as pointed. This is the Word, and the Word is good, and the Word is true. If She says it, so must it be.

If She says he holds no bonds to Her beyond those of his own making, then that is the Truth, because She wills it to be.

“ _I_ let you think you did something wrong, and you didn't even know what it was, and you _hated_ yourself and _hated_ yourself,” She continues, voice never wavering. “And that is _on me_. I take full responsibility for not being truthful to you. You never felt heard, and I am _sorry_. If you aren't ready to forgive me, if you are never ready to forgive me, that is okay. That is your _right_.”

Crowley closes his eyes.

It's too much to face head-on, he finds. It's a great big scab that he's picked at for millennia, that She's gone and ripped away and immediately doused in medicine, wrapped the wound. The sting is still there, under the bandage, and a scar will undoubtedly be left behind. But if he breathes through the immediate pain, he feels the burn of the disinfectant eating away the infection.

...Listen, it's an analogy for closure.

He decides in the end to inhale very deeply, let it out in a heavy sigh, and turn onto his side to face Her. Her eyes are closed, which he thinks makes him brave enough to cover Her hand with his own.

“You know,” he says carefully, and it only feels a _bit_ like chewing on nails as the words are dragged out of him from someplace small and tender, “I didn't expect anything like this. I mean, _ever_. Forgiveness? I mean, for humans, yeah, eternal forgiveness, but me, I'm the unforgivable one. And You, You don't make mistakes.

And it doesn't at all hurt when She takes the hand he's offers and presses it to Her cheek, Her eyes still shut. It's—well, it's nice. It's familiar. It feels, strangely, like home.

“The more I went through this...scenario,” God begins, fingers still wrapped around his wrist loosely, “Trying to figure out what I would say to you, the more I realized that my good intentions wouldn't make you feel better. Even if I was honest, it would sound like excuses even to myself. It would sound like I had the _right_ to it, and that you feelings about it didn't matter. Nothing could be _further_ from the truth; your feelings are the most important part of all of it. None of this would have gone right if you hadn't ended up loving humans, or if you hadn't ended up loving _him_.”

He flinches without meaning to, fingers jumping a little against Her freckled skin. He doesn't even know _why_ , really, because of course the Almighty knows. It isn't as though it has been secret for a while now, but years of trying to protect this secret cherished thing, for fear of it being destroyed (and it being _his fault_ ) leave some hard habits to kick. Because if She doesn't approve, She's the one Entity who could do something about it.

In response, She pulls his fingers to Her lips and kisses his knuckles. “He's not going to be hurt. Not by me, and not by others, he's not going to be hurt because of you. I promise you, no matter what you two face, he's never going to be hurt for loving you or for being loved by you.”

God never lies, though She does work in mysterious ways. For the moment, it's enough to have his shoulders relaxing slowly, in increments.

The atmosphere that falls over them is hard to define. There's a definitive weight he had become accustomed to and recognized as his new norm that's lifted, and in the aftermath he finds just how exhausted he's been by carrying it—like chronic pain, like being on your feet for hours and then collapsing at the end of it, unable to move, just trying to recuperate. Trying to remember what it feels like to _not_ be in pain, to not ache indefinitely.

And then, when it happens, when there isn't anymore pain, and that becomes _normal again_ , like it should have been to begin with, it can catch a person off-guard, how different it feels. How have they lived a life with pain being an aspect of normalcy? What aspects of life have been controlled by it?

How much of Crowley has been controlled by the bone-deep knowledge he was unforgivable?

When the knowledge he lived by is cored out of him like this, it's an altogether unfamiliar and confusing sensation.

She allows him the time to feel his way through it, bit by bit, until he finally reaches for Her, wrapping his long limbs and big knobbly hands around Her much smaller form. She goes willingly, Her forehead pressed to his chest where his heart would be. It feels so incredibly correct, the interlocking of two parts, Crowley feels all the breath leave him at the rightness of it.

He grins beside himself at the strangeness of it all. “You are _something else_ , you know that?”

The response he gets is another little snort. “So I've heard.”

For the first time in millennia, Crowley holds his Mother. He basks in the ease of it, the oddly familiar weight of Her in his arms, and relaxes fully, his arms adjusting to get Her closer, his fingers tangling in Her hair. It feels just like his does when it's long—curly, tangled.

Time is very much meaningless here, so when the sky shifts to twilight, and then to night, it could be within a matter of minutes or hours. The tree is still emanating music incredibly softly, drifting through the garden as the stars come out.

“You're not gonna make me an angel again, right?” Crowley finally asks, a bit flatly, pulling back and tilting his chin to examine Her. “I do not want to be an angel, I cannot stress enough how much I don't want that.”

There's a little snort and a wry smile. “You would be a terrible angel, no thanks. Besides, I wouldn't be calling you Crowley if that was the plan.”

The demon ponders this, then nods in acquiescence. “S'fair, completely fair.”

The Almighty does examine him then, brow scrunched up in thought. “Do you.... _want_ to know that name? I could tell you, if you want.”

“Naaaah,” he says, sitting up on his side, resting his weight on an arm. “I've got a pretty educated guess, and I think I very much prefer Crowley.”

This earns him a full grin, Her mouth full of little white teeth, a little crooked, and every bit delightful. “I _love_ that name. I love when humans choose their names too! It's so personal, the way they end up shaping it and making it _theirs_.”

The conversation is this light flowing thing for what he can only assume is a while. Of course he can't keep track, not with the way time loses meaning in dreams and loses weight in the moments when you're with someone you can just _talk_ to, with ease. Time passes with no one to witness it.

There are questions and answers, and questions and non-answers, and questions with answers that prompt _more_ questions, and underneath it, a promise that good things come to those who can wait. Throughout it, an ache in his chest is filled with every smile She graces him with, Her eyes so very clearly crinkled with love.

It's an ache Crowley has long been familiar with, one Aziraphale has worked hard and has managed to fill, taking the place where his Grace once was. Still, the difference here is the added relief—he's spent a long time living with the concealed fear She would smite him for daring to be near an angel, and a longer time living with the belief he must have earned the hollow in his chest, earned Her loathing somehow.

And while a single night isn't enough to repair over six millennia of damage—something She admits Herself, shamefaced—it's enough for an attempt to repair a frayed, fragile bond, to allow it to bloom into something stronger and more well-woven in time. It is, very simply, an offering, an opening up, an exposure of vulnerability in the hopes Crowley will choose this relationship in a way he's never been allowed before.

And, well, Crowley does very much like choices.

Once upon a time he would have said, and believed sincerely, that this bond would be out of reach for him in a way it wasn't for humans. Humans, astounding bizarre creatures they are, were allowed to choose the nature of their relationship with the Almighty. They'd been allowed to cast Her aside, stop believing in Her presence altogether, and they were equally allowed to walk right back into Her arms, no matter the time. Such a choice, he believed, had been taken from him as a demon, never to be offered again. He'd never be able to earn it back.

Now, with the worst behind him, with time to feel Aziraphale's love for him (him!) every day without constraint or shame—now, Crowley can believe it's possible. He can believe he might be able to deserve it.

The sun is starting to crest over the eastern wall when the questions turn back on themselves, back to how the conversation began.

“You said something,” Crowley begins, “earlier. About the Fallen, and Heaven and Hell. Something they have to face, in the end. Can we go back to that?”

His Mother doesn't look at him while he speaks. She chooses instead to pluck up one of Her apples, and bites into the flesh. Her eyes are shut as She chews, and when She swallows, the words She says are carefully chosen.

“Bits and pieces, my love. You've already parsed out parts of it yourself.”

“Yeah?”

Tell me,” She says, rather suddenly, “what do you think the end of the world will really look like? The Big One.”

Crowley swallows around a sudden lump in his throat.

He's talked to Aziraphale about this more than once, since the Apocalypse and the trials. Numerous conversations and fits of panic, Aziraphale trying to be his sturdy foundation while he, Crowley, shook with the anxiety of it, trying to prepare for the worst to come, unable to even imagine how to stop something so much bigger and unpredictable than even the Antichrist.

It's the cause of nightmares, it's what shakes him awake to make sure Aziraphale is still close within reach. It's a thing that haunts him; and he realizes, sitting under this tree, that _this_ is the point of this dream.

 _Peace of mind_ , She had said.

Funny. The confirmation does nothing to comfort him.

“Heaven and Hell against humanity,” he finally says, voice tight and hoarse. “That's it, isn't it? That's how it all goes up in pieces.”

She is still eating Her apple, making quick work of it. When She finishes it, She tosses the core aside and grabs a second. “ _Malus sieversii_ ,” the Almighty says quite calmly, in lieu of an answer. “Ancestor of the common apple. Want one?”

He stares at its shiny skin, stomach in his throat. “Not really.”

She shrugs, tosses the apple between Her hands like a cricket ball.

“This is a thing I can only give you the pieces to. You'll have to solve the puzzle yourself.”

Crowley watches Her roll the fruit between Her fingers, lips pressed tightly together. She sighs softly, and continues. “I know you can do it, love. You're the smartest of the lot, you really are. Let me ask you something.”

She tosses the apple into the air, catches it again.

“What is it, that the Tree of Knowledge reveals to one who eats its fruit?”

It's a deceptively simple question, which is why his answer is cautious. “Good and evil.”

“Are you _sure_?” She prompts, all the humor drained from Her. And suddenly, he is really very not sure at all.

“Second question.” Another toss. Another catch. “What's the real difference between humans and those in Heaven and Hell? What's the true thing that makes humans _special_? Unique in my eyes?”

Toss. Catch. Toss. Catch. His eyes follow the apple up, down.

“Third question. What is that those who spend too much time on Earth become _capable_ of?” Her eyes find his, and they twinkle.

“What are you playing at?” Crowley says, brow furrowed.

“Fourth question,” She continues, undeterred, holding the apple in Her palm and examining it with cheeky smile, “and possibly my favorite. Why did the Antichrist, the child born to _destroy_ the world, choose to _save_ it instead? What _changed_ him? What was inherent in him, a human, that made him choose humanity?”

Crowley blinks, eyes flicking from Her own to the apple, and back again. There's anticipation and delight in Her eyes, the eagerness to see his reaction when he finds the answer.

He thinks he knows the answer She looks for, but he's hesitant to share it. He's afraid to be wrong , afraid to sound _hopeful_. Because it is a hopeful answer, naively so—it's something out of a children's storybook.

“Well?” his Mother says, offering out the apple again. “Want to try one?”

Crowley swallows around the lump in his throat, and takes the apple from Her fingers. He meets Her gaze, inhales deeply, and then bites into it.

And then he _knows_.

-

Here is the secret nobody talks about, reader (yes, you, the human, I'm talking to you);

You know that thing that lives in your chest? No, not the heart, though it might reside in there. It's that thing you feel when you're near someone dear to you, when you make them laugh or hear them talk about something they love. What you feel when your smile is so wide it ends up hurting your cheeks, when you're so overwhelmed with hope and the need to help others you've never met, when you listen to a song you relate to down to your marrow.

That thing you feel, that you are constantly scared will scare away the people around you, for how _big_ it is. It feels so big it could break you, and you _know_ like you know the color of your own eyes that it will overwhelm everyone around you because it overwhelms _you_ , and you can't let it out because you're scared no one will pick up your pieces.

You're scared because someone will see you; see all your soft and tender parts, and your need and your energy and your wild thoughts, and they will decide that they don't want what they see. And you can't put it back into the cage in your chest at that point, it's too late to keep them from seeing, and you worry it's ruined everything and it will never stop because you're never be able to stop _feeling_.

Yes, you know the one, the thing that lives in your chest. The feeling that seems galaxies long, oceans deep, unbearable ache and light as sunshine. The feeling that you seem so alone in, nobody else could ever feel this much like you feel, and if someone sees just how much is inside you, they will never want you.

We, every single one of us, human and small and insignificant, with our too-short lives and our violence and our grief--

We all feel it.

We're all drowning, a bit, in the constant, boundless depths of our incredibly complex emotions. Fear, yes, fear is deep and aching, but so is _love_ , and love is all the more terrifying, I've found. I've spent so long being certain that my own deep unending love would be _too much_ for anyone to want me. I was so certain I felt this uncontrollable ache in my chest alone. I begged someone to try to name it, describe it, so I could feel _seen_.

When it happened, a bell was rung, and it couldn't be unrung--

And around me, a crowd gathered, hands outstretched to each other. Voices whispered, near-reverently, “Me too, I know how that feels, it resonates in me, it's _struck_ me with how much I understand”.

Like stars coming out at night. Like lanterns being lit in the dark, one by one.

Isn't it astounding, then, that we've all been fooled into thinking we were alone? How we've all been convinced that our emotions, our _love_ , was too much? That no one could ever understand the depth of this ache, absolutely and utterly ineffable. (Yes, ineffable. Too vast, too complicated, too unending to be understood by the mind and captured by the words.)

Think about it. That thing in you, the thing that inspires and aches and ebbs and flows; doesn't it feel as big as a universe inside your chest? You seem so small in the scope of it all, but there's so much inside you, like the opposite of entropy. You create, inspire, put more energy out into the world that other people see and other people are inspired by and the cycle expands. You can't help loving with all of you, and you can't help the fact that even though you give it away, the love inside you seems endless and eternal.

And there are seven-point-five billion people like you, right on this spinning ball, radiating a universe inside each of them, radiating love so big that it can defy laws set by the universe itself--

 _This_ is what it means to be made in God's Image.

(and I'm telling you—yes, _you,_ simply and utterly human—you are _never too much_. And I love you, not because it's convenient, and not for show, not because that's what I'm supposed to do. I love you because you are like me. In the ways that it matters, you are like me.)

-

Crowley's face is wet, when he looks back up at the Almighty. He feels like he's seeing Her for the first time, like he can finally see and comprehend all the overwhelming joy in Her face, the depths of it.

His eyes fall to the apple in his hand.

“I--” he starts, and then falls forward into Her lap, shaking. She soothes him softly, running Her fingers through his hair.

“I know. I know, isn't it _wonderful_?”

He wants to laugh. His head is spinning as he tries to make sense of it all.

“Good and evil,” he says pathetically, “They really don't mean much of anything, do they?”

“Oh, I don't know,” She says terribly gently. “Love is a great and terrible thing, you know? Makes people do things they might never have thought they could.”

“Yeah,” He feels breathless. “Wow. _Wow_.”

“Wow is right. You can start to see it now, can't you? What the end will really look like.”

Crowley pulls back and looks up at his Mother, his face wet and smile wide. “Aziraphale and me—that's why it's working, isn't it? We're just the start, aren't we? Beelzebub, and Gabriel, and there's going to be more of them after us, coming to Earth, _learning_ \--”

Her smile lights him up inside, heart swooping in his chest in a way that makes him feel dizzy and light. He continues, unable to contain himself. “It's not Heaven and Hell against humanity. It's them against _Love_ , the real kind.”

The Almighty's eyes crinkle. There is so much to Her; eternal ageless wisdom in Her eyes, yet equally young and free and full of wonder with him at the marvel of it. “I knew you could figure it out.”

She kisses his forehead, and Crowley wakes up.

-

The demon crawls out of bed slowly, comforter clutched tight round his shoulders. It drags just behind him like a train when he shuffles out of the bedroom, into the living area of the flat.

Aziraphale is in his wingback chair, eyes on an open book in the late morning light from the east window. At the sound of his entrance, the angel looks up to greet him. The smile slips into a concerned moue at the sight of him.

“Darling? Is everything alright?”

Crowley reaches for him, and Aziraphale sets his book aside to stand and walk into his embrace. The angel holds Crowley so tightly, running a soothing hand over Crowley's back under the comforter. “Crowley,” Aziraphale says softly, “have you been crying? Was it another nightmare?”

Crowley laughs, really laughs, even though his cheeks are still wet and his tears are still coming. He holds Aziraphale close as he possibly can, trying to let the angel feel all the joy stuck in his chest, all the love overflowing from him. He thinks he must succeed, from the small sharp inhale he hears, and he laughs again.

_(I love you, I love you, I love you)_

He buries his face into Aziraphale's neck, smiling widely enough to hurt his cheeks. Very quietly, so quietly he's not certain the angel hears (but that's alright, it is, everything's going to be _alright_ ), he whispers;

“We're going to _win_.”

_fin_.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, you? I love you. Really, truly, I love you.


End file.
